Separation Anxiety
by gwendolyn-flight
Summary: Harry discovers a startling truth about his mother. Slightly-edited version. Chapter 6 is up!
1. Separation Anxiety: A Manual

This was actually a piece of experimental fiction that I wrote   
recently for a class, so the form and structure are both   
basically screwed to hell. Also, it was adapted to HP  
after the fact, so if there are any inconsistancies, please  
feel free to point them out.  
  
Any questions, email me at allme@rhodes.edu  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, but the plot's  
mine, baby!  
  
Summary: Harry discovers a startling truth about his  
mother.  
  
Rating: PG13 for adult themes and mild language. Eventually, it'll   
go to R.  
  
************************************  
Separation Anxiety: A Manual  
Worksheet #1: Identifying Anxiety  
************************************  
  
The moon was full, but it was sheened dark like a silver dollar. Harry moved   
slowly through the trees, glimpsing the dimmed moon only occasionally through   
gaps in the dense foliage. It was early fall, and the leaves had softened to auburn;   
they felt ready to fall.   
  
Harry stepped into a clearing hesitantly, letting the moonlight silver his black   
hair and gleam his pale skin. His clothing was carefully non-reflective, and his   
pack likewise absorbed the light as he slung it to the ground. The soft thud was   
lost in the aging dark. He crouched next to the pack, glancing up at the moon   
briefly to gauge the time while his hands rummaged through the battered canvas   
pack. He wondered briefly if Lupin was out and about.  
  
"Shit!" he hissed quietly, jerking his hand back. There was blood running down   
his fingers and over his thin wrist, clearly visible in the moonlight. He muttered   
softly to himself, and licked a single broad stroke up his wrist and hand before   
sticking the wounded fingers into his mouth. With his other hand he pulled out the   
small dagger that had injured him; his blood, still wet, glimmered on the blued   
metal.  
  
He stared at his blood for a moment, fascinated, lips gone slack around fingers   
still oozing the precious stuff. *She'd* bled like this. His hair fell into his eyes, and   
he shook his head restlessly, as if coming out of a trance. He thrust the knife into   
the soft loam, and went back to rummaging among his things.  
  
It would have been different if they'd told him.  
  
He began to lay out everything he'd need, settling each object securely into the   
giving earth before him, anchoring it all in firm reality: the knife, a single photograph,   
a simply-beaded necklace, a hairbrush, and a handwritten note. The knife was   
bloody, the photo so tattered and worn from repeated handlings that the woman no   
longer moved, the necklace frayed and retied, the hairbrush tangled with several   
strands of long auburn hair, and the note smeared, though neatly written.   
  
//Your mother's alive, Harry. They've been hiding her in Surrey.   
She's been alive all this time.//  
  
They could've told him.  
  
He picked up the knife again, running his thumb across the pressure-bleached cuts   
on his fingers. A cloud passed over the moon, and he looked up, annoyed with the   
delay.  
  
He'd wanted the moon to be perfect for this. Perfect the way it had been when   
*she'd* bled.  
  
They should have told him.  
  
The clouds didn't matter. He could wait. He had all the time in the world, now.  
  
  
*******************************************************  
Worksheet #2: Temporary Solutions for Anxiety  
*******************************************************   
(A/N Harry is much younger in this section, around 12)  
  
"It's not enough that we give you food and shelter?" his uncle bellowed, throwing   
the ragged shoe at his head. Harry ducked, tripping over the other shoe in his   
hasty retreat.  
  
Perhaps mentioning his desire to own less-holey footwear had been a mistake.  
  
"Get to your room," his uncle growled, face reddening with his anger. "If it weren't   
for those damn *people* I wouldn't even give you that much!" he shouted up the   
stairs after Harry's running form. Harry ducked into his 'room', picking his way   
through Dudley's accumulated trash and other throwaway treasures.  
  
Harry scrambled into his bed, jerking off his socks and throwing them to the floor   
before curling up under the covers. He lay there for some time, shivering. He knew   
that his aunt and uncle didn't have a lot of money. He knew that he was a burden   
on their family. He pulled the covers over his head, wishing for a moment that he   
didn't need to breathe.  
  
Wishing that he hadn't been born.  
  
"Harry!" his aunt's voice called, nearing his door. "Harry, you haven't finished your   
chores." She tapped the door a few times, then he could hear her footsteps retreating   
back through his cousin's room.   
  
If he hadn't been born, then his mother wouldn't have died.  
  
"Coming, Aunt Petunia!" he yelled, climbing reluctantly from under the thin blanket to   
pad barefoot down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he retrieved the broom and   
began sweeping around his aunt's rail-thin form.   
  
He kept his head down, following the line of the broom as he drew it across the black   
and white tiles.  
  
He deserved this. It was his fault.  
  
He'd killed his mother.  
  
*****************************************************  
Worksheet #3: Getting Help When You Need It   
*****************************************************  
  
She'd been easy enough to track down, once he knew to look.  
  
The note remained a mystery. It arrived in the usual fashion, stamped and sealed   
in a hand-addressed envelope. The fact that it was addressed to Harry was a bit   
unusual; he never got mail. Not through the regular post, anyway. But aside from   
this peculiarity, everything seemed business as usual.  
  
He opened it at the breakfast table; his aunt and uncle were halfway through their   
daily toast, and he and his cousin were picking at their scrambled eggs. He and   
Dudley both hated scrambled eggs, but Aunt Petunia insisted that they were healthy.  
Besides, Dudley would eat anything.  
  
The sun shone weakly through the windows into the breakfast nook; it was partly   
cloudy, as the weatherman had predicted, and would likely rain before the afternoon.   
Harry faced the watery sun with reluctant, squinting eyes. He was more than ready   
for the first day back at school; it was less than a week away, and even though most   
kids his age dreaded schoolwork with a vengeance, he couldn't repress his excitement   
at the thought of escaping the Dursleys for another few months. His leg was jiggling   
restlessly under the table, and his uncle paused in scraping raspberry preserves onto   
his toast to fix Harry with a disapproving look.  
  
"Would you like the paper, dear?" Aunt Petunia asked, distracting his uncle. She was   
already nearing the door, so his uncle called out a brief, "Thank you, yes," at her back.  
Harry's cousin rolled his eyes and flicked a bit of egg at Harry; Dudley was a full two   
years older than Harry, but he harbored a great resentment of Harry's powers that   
caused him to act approximately three. At least, that was Harry's theory at the time.   
  
Alternatively, Dudley could simply have been just as stupid as he seemed.  
  
His aunt returned with the mail as Harry was popping the bit of egg into his mouth;   
she skewered him with one of her *looks*, said "Use your fork, Harry," and set an   
envelope before his plate.  
  
"What's this, Aunt Petunia?" he asked curiously, picking up the crisp paper.  
  
"It was addressed to you," she said indifferently, a far cry from their furor over the  
Hogwarts letter five years ago; she folded herself primly into her chair, and passed   
the daily to his uncle.  
  
"Thanks," he said, rolling his eyes as he wriggled his thumb underneath the envelope's   
flap and tore down the seam.  
  
//Harry,  
You won't know who I am, but I knew your mother and father very   
well. Your mother's alive, Harry. They've been hiding her in Surrey. She's   
been alive all this time. I don't know why they haven't told you, maybe to   
keep her safe, maybe because she wanted it this way. What you do about   
this information is up to you. I just felt that you should know.//  
  
The note was unsigned. There was no return address.  
  
"Harry, are you alright?" his aunt asked, her voice uncharacteristically concerned.  
  
"Fine," he said woodenly, staring at the simply-phrased note that had just destroyed   
his life. He felt as though something were literally tearing loose inside his chest, and   
he put a hand to his heart, rubbing at his breast absently. "I'll be fine, Aunt Petunia. I   
just think I might need to lie down," he continued as he stood abruptly from the table,   
knocking his chair over in his haste. He ignored his aunt's shocked eyes and his   
uncle's annoyed glare as he retreated to his room.  
  
Alive.  
  
He hadn't killed her.  
  
He could find her.  
  
They could be together.  
  
***  
  
hey, if you liked it, please review. upon request, i may   
expand this into a really long story with motivations  
and explanations and in scene murder. for instance,  
you'd get to find out who sent the letter. I already know  
who sent the letter. bwahahahaha! umm. sorry. :) 


	2. SA Chapter 2: My Disturbing Behavior

Yeah, the Dursleys are well-off financially; however, you have to remember   
that Harry's perception of things isn't always correct. For instance, it's not   
*really* his fault that his mom died, but he believes that it is.  
  
SEV-slightly-edited version- the text has been altered slightly in order that  
it might adhere to new guidelines presented by FF.net. The original version  
will still be available on my website. The main differences involve an increased  
use of metaphor and the use of English slang instead of obscene language  
where possible.  
  
Another paragraph was added at the end, might be worth a read.  
*******************************************  
Worksheet #4: Locating the Problem  
*******************************************  
  
He should be at school.  
  
That's what he kept telling himself, anyway.  
  
It's what Hagrid would say. It's what Dumbledore would say.  
  
They were never much on *personal* quests. Of course his rule-breaking  
was fine when it was for the rest of the world, but as soon as *he* wanted  
something it was all 'Wait, Harry' and 'This isn't a good idea, Harry' and  
'Put *everything* else before yourself, Harry'.  
  
"Hey, watch it!"  
  
He was suddenly spun around by a solid shoulder, the bare warning of the  
shout just preventing him from going to his knees. He stared after the taller  
man, trying to burn a hole through the man's long, black, suitably impressive  
trench coat with flat jade eyes. Not that it would work without his wand, he   
supposed. Envying another man's outerwear was not sufficient reason for   
his magic to react on its own.  
  
Harry sighed as the man disappeared into the crowd. He felt terribly conspicuous   
in Dudley's outgrown clothing, clothing that fit him rather like a circus tent or the   
clothes of some American rapper, which was, unfortunately, *not* the current style   
in muggle London. Even his back pack, full as it was, seemed lost among the   
folds and billows of cotton-spandex blend.  
  
He stood in the middle of the side walk, eyeing the trendy boutiques and   
well-dressed people of the nicer end of Piccadilly; people, for the most part   
dressed in sober, well-tailored clothing, flowed around his still figure like a stream   
boulder-parted. He dismally flapped a wing-like sleeve, and continued on against   
the flow.  
  
The note had said Surrey. He should probably be heading to Surrey.  
  
"Are you lost?" A woman suddenly asked him. Her hand found his thin shoulder,   
halting his forward momentum. He stared up into her chocolate brown eyes, kind   
as a Labrador, and wished that his growth-spurt had occurred last summer as   
had Ron's. Five-six was a dismal height at which to linger.   
  
"No, ma'am," he said softly, wishing for a Sweeny Todd revelation of 'This is   
my mother! I'm not alone!' but she just smiled, and continued on towards a   
GAP import.  
  
But he wasn't actually lost, anyway, in any sense other than the cosmic.   
  
The Leaky Cauldron was around here somewhere, and he needed supplies.  
  
*************************************************  
Worksheet #5: The First Signs of Disorder  
*************************************************  
  
"Why wouldn't they tell me?"   
  
If talking to oneself was any indications, then Harry Potter had officially  
checked out. Not that anyone else would know. The Dursleys had cleared the   
house for the day, Vernon to work, Petunia on errands, and Dudley out with  
his pack of friends.  
  
"Why keep it a secret?"  
  
Of course, the Dursleys would normally *never* leave Harry alone in the house.   
He might burn it down, or magic . . . something . . . somehow. Normally, if they   
were all planning to leave, Harry would be left with Mrs. Figg and her cats. He   
was beginning to hate cats.   
  
"What possible difference would it make?"  
  
But this summer hadn't exactly been normal. Vernon had installed locks on   
Harry's door, for one thing, so Harry was currently locked inside with no one   
*but* himself to talk to. Harry didn't quite understand the logic behind the shiny   
new hasp. If he could do magic, then wouldn't he be just as able to 'magic'   
something from behind a closed (and locked and dead bolted) door?  
  
"I could have lived with her. *She's* my family, not the Dursleys."  
  
Not that logic had *ever* ruled the Dursleys. There had been the incident with   
the barred window his second year, and of course the 11 years in the cupboard   
hadn't been their most logical move. Harry certainly wouldn't have pissed off   
someone he was that afraid of that badly.   
  
"How could Dumbledore allow it? How could Sirius have lied to me?"  
  
He distracted himself for several moments by imagining Snape locked in a   
cupboard; unfortunately, the idea of what he would do in retaliation once he   
escaped kept intruding on the fantasy, causing it to rather quickly lose its   
appeal. He then spent some time watching dust motes dance along the single   
ray of light that had crept through the shutters. Well, they were cheaper and   
less conspicuous than actual bars. At least that's what Harry hoped was the   
reasoning behind the replacement, because he'd hate to think that they were   
depriving him of natural sunlight and fresh air deliberately.  
  
"Why is everyone trying to keep me *here*?"  
  
Another difference in this summer had been the lack of work; aside from   
weeding the garden once or twice and that time he washed the windows,   
Harry hadn't done anything to "help out around the house". Perhaps Petunia   
had become accustomed to cooking the family's dinner herself. Perhaps the   
Dursleys thought that Harry would poison them, if given the chance. Perhaps   
they had come to see the error of their ways . . . Nah.  
  
"Is blood that much safer?"  
  
It was more that the Dursleys were ignoring him. First with the locks and  
shutters, second the lack of chores. Dudley never tried to kill him anymore.  
Even Vernon's wrath was occasional and mild, the rare swipe of an aging  
paw. And they were feeding him; he ate with the family, and he ate the same   
as Dudley, though of course not as much(if that would even be possible). He   
just couldn't figure it out. Why change now?  
  
"If mother *is* alive, then she didn't die for me when Voldemort came."  
  
The only conclusion of which Harry could conceive involved the intervention  
of his godfather, or perhaps that of Dumbledore; only a full-out threat from a   
full-out wizard would have stopped the Dursleys' abuse. But it didn't make   
sense for someone to threaten the Dursleys but not remove him from their  
care. He just couldn't understand that part of it. Because if this someone knew  
enough to prevent the behavior, then they obviously knew about the behavior  
itself. So why leave him here? Why not rescue him?  
  
"So if it wasn't her love that saved me, then what was it?"  
  
That's how he knew it couldn't have been the Weasleys who gave the warning.   
Ron had proved in the past that he was both willing and able to affect an   
impromptu rescue mission, and Fred and George would always be willing to   
help. But no Weasley had contacted him this summer. Even Hermione had fallen   
to the owl-post blackout. So someone in authority -- Dumbledore -- must have   
told his friends that writing to him would put him in danger. Otherwise, he would   
have received at least *one* birthday gift, if not several.  
  
"What saved me? Why am I alive?"  
  
And why leave him here? Of course, where else would one breed a hero except   
in adversity? Not that he believed Dumbledore capable of such manipulations . . .   
Strike that, a life-long plot to drive him into a desperation deep enough that killing   
Voldie seemed a good alternative to suicide sounded exactly like something   
Dumbledore would and could plan.   
  
"Why do they want *me*?"  
  
So, there was nothing else for it but to escape. He didn't have his wand, or any   
outside help, but a hero in training should be able to work around such obstacles,  
correct? Please note the sarcasm. At least Fred and George were finally coming  
in use; a few practical jokes secreted in his outsized clothing, then under the  
loose floorboards beside his bed, would do the job nicely. When the cat's away,  
as the saying goes.  
  
"Why am *I* so bloody special?"  
  
But this mouse was ready for a bit more than 'play'.  
***  
  
Umm, the thought-chain was pretty much unconnected to the rest of that  
last section. Just . . . follow the thematic. 


	3. SA Chapter 3: The Good Samaritan

couple of notes: yes, harry/snape IS coming. I don't like to rush these things.  
also, everything will get explained eventually, but I really appreciate having the  
sub-plots questioned, really keeps me on my toes. sadly, I know absolutely  
NOTHING about the geography of England, or London for that matter, and  
since I'm way too lazy to research this, the details will be made up as I go along.  
  
Warning: SEV-once again, the text has been edited slightly, in that the physical  
scene of the rape is non-explicit, though it is present and will later be referred to.  
That under-17 bit in the R rating is no joke. There is also violence, though the  
language was downplayed for balance.  
  
********************************************  
Worksheet #6: Gold Rim is an Answer  
********************************************  
  
So you're told all your life that your parents died in a car crash.   
  
That you were sent to live with your aunt, uncle, and cousin because there was   
literally no one else who would have you.   
  
And so they mistreated you-- not so much on purpose, just in that they loved their   
son-- and couldn't spare a second thought for you.   
  
So being told the truth wouldn't help matters any.   
  
Being told at eleven wouldn't make much of a difference-- too late, then.   
  
Being told that your father was a wizard and your mother a witch, that they'd   
schooled together at a place called Hogwarts, that they'd made one very   
important enemy, might not change your outlook on life quite as much as  
they'd apparently expected it to.  
  
It's when they sit you down and, with compassionate eyes, tell you that a dark   
wizard--Hogwarts' best and brightest gone bad-- tracked down your parents in   
spite of every spell and enchantment laid against him, that you decide things   
might be a bit off.   
  
It's when they tell you that He Who Shall Not Be Named got your father   
downstairs, your mother in your room, protecting you, that you begin to wonder   
why, of all things, your mother's *survival* was hidden.   
  
And it's when they present you with an invitation to join said wizarding school   
that you begin to think that an explanation and a bit of money might not, after   
ten years, be enough.  
  
  
***************************************  
Worksheet #7: Money is the Root  
***************************************  
  
The very first time Harry Potter entered the Leaky Cauldron, he was eleven   
years old, and any in-circulation pictures would have been about ten years   
out of date.   
  
Yet he was greeted by nearly every person in the pub. Even Voldemort shook   
his hand that day, though in the guise of Professor Quirrell. Even then, when   
no one knew him personally, they still knew *who* he was.   
  
Because of the thrice-cursed scar on his forehead he was instantly recognizable   
throughout the wizarding world.   
  
And how much truer would that be now, when the papers were filled with pictures   
of and articles on the infamous Potter.   
  
The fact remained that anonymity was impossible for the Boy Who Lived.  
  
What he needed was a disguise.  
  
And magic would, typically, be useless in this situation. Wear a disguise spell   
into a world of wizards both more powerful and more experienced than himself?   
No, thank you. But a muggle disguise, now that had possibilities.  
  
Of course, he also lacked money. Entering Gringotts to obtain money with which  
to buy a disguise would be . . . well, silly.   
  
Self-defeating.   
  
Overtly stupid.   
  
He'd retained money from the school year, but exchanging the wizard currency   
for muggle pound notes carried similar difficulties. And if he contacted any of   
his friends . . . even if Dumbledore didn't learn of it immediately, Harry wasn't   
altogether sure that anyone would believe or want to help him.  
  
Which left . . . stealing, he supposed, though he just *knew* that there *had*   
to be a better way to make some money.  
***  
  
He honestly didn't notice that he'd been walking nearly all night; it was nearing   
dawn when he came to rest against a remarkably ugly concrete pillar   
masquerading as a Neo-Grecian column, or a hitching post, he couldn't be   
sure which. His backpack, stuffed with more outsized clothing and the crumbled   
remains of food, had long-since evolved from a drag at his shoulders to a   
constant, throbbing pain.   
  
At least the streets were still. Still and silent. The daily commute wouldn't begin   
for at least another hour, and the desperate night-crawlers had only recently   
vanished into the rising mist. For a time, he would have London to himself.   
  
He sat with his back against the pillar, feeling momentarily defeated. He should   
have stolen some cash from Vernon; maybe it wouldn't have been enough for   
everything that he needed, but it would have been a start. All of his muggle   
cash had been spent on the train into London. His stomach growled. He was   
beginning to wish that he'd hitchhiked instead.   
  
"Hey, kid," a voice said out of nowhere.  
  
He jumped to his feet, heart lurching in his thin chest, but relaxed when he got a   
good look at the man standing above him; it wasn't a cop. Actually, the man was   
very well-dressed, in an expensive, tailored suit and what looked like handmade   
Italian shoes; he was carrying a rich leather briefcase, and his clean-jawed face   
was kindly in the yellow streetlamp.  
  
"Boy, are you alright?" The well-dressed man asked again, shaped and trimmed  
eyebrows furrowing worriedly.  
  
"Quite, thanks," Harry replied shakily, wishing again that he'd stolen more food   
when he left.  
  
"You look rather ill," the man continued, putting out one manicured hand to steady   
Harry as he wobbled on his feet. "Run away from home, then?"  
  
He was very kind, and seemed very patient, and Harry had been expected cruelty   
for so long now that anything else felt out of the ordinary; he swallowed thickly, and   
nodded. The man smiled.  
  
"I imagine your parents will want to know that you're alright, hmm?"   
  
"No," Harry said dimly, feeling something like a black cloud float up to invade his   
skull. "They won't care that I've gone." The well-groomed hand on his shoulder was   
leading him somewhere, though he was too tired to really worry about that fact.  
  
"Excellent," the man smiled, working his slender, strong fingers into Harry's collar.   
"Then no one will notice your absence for quite some time."  
  
"Excuse me?" Harry started, coming out of his haze of exhaustion enough to notice   
that the man had led him into a narrow alley; built before the days of automobiles,   
the alley was barely large enough for man and boy to walk side by side. Not that   
walking was what the well-dressed man had in mind.  
  
He threw Harry up against a rough brick wall, dropping his briefcase to wrap his   
slender fingers around Harry's throat. "Don't scream," he whispered. "And you   
can walk away from this."  
  
"What--" Harry repeated helplessly, hands clawing at the arms holding him to the wall,   
knees jabbing repeatedly but uselessly into the man's thighs.   
  
The man shook him with the hand around his throat, bashing his head into the bricks   
until bright spots swam in the overwhelming rise of black. The man's other hand was   
fumbling with Dudley's clothing, apparently baffled by the excess cloth. Harry was   
gurgling, and very still. The man relaxed his hold, and crushed Harry into a kiss.  
  
A tongue had invaded his mouth; a foreign organism, entirely unfamiliar, it squirmed   
like warm velvet into the corners of his teeth. His own tongue went forth to do battle,   
was beaten down, and retreated quickly to allow the portcullis to slam shut.  
  
"You bloody little prick!" The man screamed, jerking back, trying to staunch his   
weeping tongue while still holding Harry in place; Harry struggled wildly, knowing   
that this was his time to escape. But the man was a good bit taller, and a good bit   
stronger, and forced him into the wall, fingers pressing now into his jaw hard enough   
to break the skin.  
  
He couldn't breathe. The man was very angry now, and was ripping at Dudley's   
hand-me-downs, popping buttons and rending cloth until he'd bared the thin chest.   
Harry shivered into goosebumps in the chill morning air; it was the dark before   
dawn, and the wind felt like death. His nipples went erect in the cold, and the man   
ran a possessive hand down Harry's flesh, feeling his fear.  
  
"You pretty little slut," the man crooned, thumbing Harry's nipples with broadly-splayed   
hands. "You beautiful baby slut. I'm going to take you until we both bleed." And he   
slid a hand down Harry's belly to his groin.  
  
Harry jerked, and slammed his fist into the man's head, then again. The man slammed   
him into the brick wall, growling, and Harry screamed; he could feel blood pouring,   
warm and sticky, down the back of his neck. His scalp had been split open. He   
couldn't see straight, and the man had already forced his jeans open and his legs   
apart. Oh Merlin, he was going to be raped.  
  
The man forced a hand between Harry's shivering thighs, his other hand back at the  
young wizard's throat. Harry whimpered, his mind a whirl of streak-shot black,   
retreating in on itself. He squirmed, reaching desperately, fingers scrabbled bloody  
across damp brick. *Where was his wand?!* His breath came in desperate gasps,   
and the man forced his bitten, weeping tongue through Harry's fear-bleached lips.  
  
"No," he sobbed, rolling his broken head against the brick, retreating further and   
further from the growing pain. "No," he said again, his voice stronger this time.   
  
The man moved his hand from Harry's throat to his mouth, forcing several fingers   
between his split and bloodied lips in echo of what was happening below. Harry   
screamed around the fingers. It *burned*, and he screamed again, and--  
  
--it was suddenly like being drained, like water pouring from a broken glass. Power   
left him in a rush, and the invasive fingers were very suddenly gone.  
  
He slumped down against the wall, hugging himself and shivering, ignoring the   
screams echoing down the alley; his power had finally awakened in order to protect   
him. He didn't especially care what the consequences were for the well-dressed   
man.   
  
He pressed himself into the bricks, fighting the urge to start screaming. He knew   
that if he started, he wouldn't stop.  
  
After a time he lifted his head, cracking his eyelids warily. The sun had come up;   
diffused light shafted through the morning fog, lighting the alley in an opalescent   
glow that nearly made the well-dressed man's body beautiful. But even the artful   
sunlight couldn't disguise the splashes and splatters of blood.   
  
The man had been ripped apart.  
  
Not quite as neat as Avada Kavedra, but it would do nicely.  
  
Harry pulled himself to his feet, swaying a bit as he buttoned and tied his hopelessly   
torn clothing. He edged forward on unsteady feet, nearly slipping on a shredded   
gobbet of flesh. He stopped, and looked down at the scattered bits and pieces   
that had once been a man. He smiled.  
  
The man's wallet had been flung into the opposite wall by the force of the . . . whatever,   
and now lay in a puddle of blood, half-open. A gold card gleamed in the early morning   
light.   
  
It seemed he'd found his funds.  
***  
  
A/N Well, I'm pretty sure that this is what they mean by censoring. Nothing happened  
explicitly! It's all implied! If I'm wrong in thinking this, then please someone tell me  
before I get my butt kicked off FF.net.  
  
Once again, the original version is available on my website. 


	4. SA Chapter 4: What Ravages of Spirit

Disclaimer: Not mine. If it were mine, this would be in a bookstore,  
and you'd be paying to read it. See the difference?  
  
Warning: This chapter PG13 for language and themes.   
  
  
**********************************************************************  
Worksheet #8: Consumer Tendencies of Corporate America  
**********************************************************************  
  
The GAP was ridiculously American, even though the pretty girl just inside the door   
greeted him with an English accent and an English smile: the walls were plastered   
with actors and models in the upper-middle-class clothing, as though the building   
itself had achieved pretension. The employees wore nearly the same exact outfits,   
and all grinned as though the world outside didn't exist. At just after nine in the   
morning, the attitude grated.  
  
He dodged around a trio of headless mannequins, briefly eyeing them for ideas   
even as he carded one hand through damp black hair to feel gingerly for torn-edged   
skin. The change of clothes, just as overlarge as the rags he'd been forced to discard,   
would continue to mark him in this city, mark him until the same thing happened again.  
Hence his shopping trip.  
  
"Can I help you find anything?" Another girl asked, lips curved gently, hands clasped   
before her in a patently helpful gesture. He shook his head, managed a quiet "Thanks,   
no," and turned back to the sheer wall of denim before him. He probably did need help,   
as he'd no inkling of his size, but the endless smiling was making him nervous.  
  
"Well, denim is ten dollars off today, if you're interested," the girl continued, before   
floating away to accost another customer.   
  
Harry grinned wryly to himself. At least he'd happened upon a sale. Bloody fantastic.  
  
Half an hour and ten pair of Boot Fit Vintage wash jeans later, he was no longer so   
sure about needing help, especially as that same girl kept following him with worried   
eyes, as though she were absolutely desperate to sell him something. Okay, to be   
fair, she hadn't started hovering until he'd tried to use the "Employee Only" ladder.   
Bit of a mistake, that.  
  
"Can I find you a size?" She asked hesitantly, swooping in (not quite magically) to   
once again re-appropriate the pair of jeans he was trying to fold. He grimaced,   
looking down to his shoes for inspiration.  
  
"Well, er, I don't actually know what size I wear," he admitted, becoming extremely   
irritated that something so seemingly simple as clothes shopping was taking so   
infernally long. Just because he'd never done this by himself . . .Okay, that was   
admittedly a point.  
  
The girl was laughing. "I can see that," she said with an honest grin. In spite of his   
embarrassment, he smiled. "Do you know your height and weight?"  
  
"Er, five-six. Not sure about the weight," he waffled, honestly unsure, having never   
been allowed near the Dursley's scale.   
  
"Right," she said slowly, apparently sizing him up with her eyes. "I'd say you'd take   
a twenty-eight thirty, maybe thirty-one. And Boot Fit is all wrong for your legs," she   
continued as she worked through several stacks of denim. "Let's put you in Loose   
and maybe Standard, and go from there."  
  
Ah, the names! he wanted to scream as the unfamiliar nomenclature washed over   
him, and he was promptly chivvied away with an armful of denim. He didn't even want  
to *think* about how he was going to find a shirt.  
  
In the end he walked out wearing a rather nice pair of jeans --having deliberately   
repressed any and all style information to preserve his fragile sanity-- and a grey polo   
layered over a blood red Henley. With a jean-jacket slung over one shoulder, Harry   
felt ready to face the oncoming English autumn, at least for a time.   
  
The credit card had worked perfectly, and the lady behind the cash register actually   
seemed charmed when he said his father had sent him into town as a back-to-school   
treat. Pun intended. Well, at least he had clean clothes again.  
  
So. Shoes. Harry resettled the much-heavier backpack on his shoulders, and looked   
up and down the crowded street, trying to pinpoint a recognizable shoe store and idly   
wondering if the clerk would be able to guess his shoe size. The crowd actually   
streamed around him, and he garnered a few friendly smiles from a maternal woman   
or three. Perhaps the clothes really did make the man . . .  
  
His musings were interrupted by a brief flash of pain, centered in his scar.  
  
He hissed, hand going to his forehead as the world reeled. Great, first a probable   
concussion, and now Voldemort was about. Or plotting. Merlin, did his scar *ache*.   
But it was imprecise, inexact. Voldemort could be around the corner or off killing   
muggles, his scar didn't differentiate.   
  
Oh Merlin. This wasn't going to work. Harry felt an unfamiliar flush of panic. One that   
said he *wasn't* helpless, *wasn't* trapped. This time, he could run.  
  
So run he did.  
  
**************************************************  
Worksheet #9: Self-Help vs. Group Therapy   
**************************************************  
  
Moonlight silvered the slate-shingled roof, and limned the jutting chimneys and the odd   
weathervane. The picture-perfect towers broke the night sky like eerie, out-reaching   
hands. A single, yellow light flickered in an upper-story window. Wind howled down the   
night sky with a lonely shiver.  
  
The pea coat might have been the more appropriate purchase, after all.  
  
The broken path had been, curiously, unguarded, affording him easy access to the   
old mansion; only the family totem served to ward the cobbled walk. He shivered   
his way to the front door, feeling oddly hesitant for all his days of argument and   
self-convincing.   
  
"It won't be all that bad," Harry muttered to himself, climbing up the stone stairs with a   
cringing sort of certainty. "And really, where else would you go," he said to finally clinch  
the argument, raising one hand to the large, extremely cliched brass knocker--  
  
--and stumbling forward as the door swung inward before his fist could connect. He   
staggered into curtains of black wool, yelping as he tangled and hit the floor, his   
backpack rolling into the wall with a dull clunk.  
  
"Potter," Severus Snape sneered, sounding not at all surprised. "Whatever possessed   
you to come *here*, of all places?" the Potions Master continued, grabbing Harry's   
elbow and wresting him to his feet.   
  
Harry stood quiescent in his grip, staring beyond the taller man into the depths of his   
home.  
  
It looked . . . normal.  
  
A fire burned in a low hearth in the far wall, bracketed by a matching sofa and   
loveseat in brown corduroy; there was an old, leather chair cattycorner to the   
couch, and a framed family portrait above the mantel.  
  
Snape apparently decided that Harry was in shock, as he led him with surprising   
gentleness to the sofa and eased him into the plush cushions. Harry found himself   
gazing blankly at the fire, now, as Snape took a pensive seat in the old leather chair.  
  
"You're looking . . . well, Potter," Snape said begrudgingly, staring at the boy with   
something approaching worry in his black eyes. "So . . . why here?"   
  
"You always did get right to the point," Harry muttered, quoting an old favorite rather   
than stating an obvious untruth. "Not even a 'Why ever did you run away from home,   
Harry?' or a 'How did you survive?', professor?"  
  
Snape blinked at him for a moment.  
  
"Unless you have mistaken me for Dumbledore, *Harry*, then I fail to apprehend the   
relevance of said questions to your arrival at *my* home," Snape said coldly. "But in   
answer, were I you I would have run away long ago, and you obviously survived through   
thievery of some kind, not very Griffindor of you, I must say--"  
  
"I am not a *thief*!" Harry growled, finally turning away from the fire to pin Snape with an   
emerald glare. "And to answer *your* question, I came here because anyone else would   
turn me in before hearing me out, thinking it for my own good. *You*, professor, hate me   
just enough to delay. Not forever, I know," Harry said, reading Snape's glare. "But long   
enough to hear the 'why'."  
  
Snape sat back, meeting Harry's eyes coolly, having used the boy's speech to regain   
his aplomb. He crossed his legs, folded his hands into his robes, and glowered. Harry   
didn't flinch. Snape sighed.  
  
"Alright, Potter," Snape said with a jaded purr. "I'm curious. What is this latest adventure   
of yours and why should I care?"  
  
Harry was silent for a moment, staring at his trembling hands where they were clasped  
together.  
  
"First, answer me something."  
  
Snape nodded, a bit impatient now.  
  
"You said you would have run away?" Harry asked, looking for the confirmation in   
Snape's eyes. "How do you know? I don't think Dumbledore knows."  
  
"That the Dursleys are the worst Muggles imaginable?" Snape laughed incredulously.   
"I knew Lilly. Oh, we weren't friends, boy," Snape continued, crushing the hope in Harry's   
emerald eyes before it could fully form. "But I knew of her. She was your father's girl,   
later his wife. Of course I knew. And word got around; Hogwarts hasn't changed in that,   
at least."  
  
"Word about what?" Harry asked hesitantly, dreading the answer.  
  
"Her sister," Snape said ingenuously, with a wicked smile for effect. "Petunia. Little   
bitch used to mutilate cats and birds, trying to make her own magic." The Potions   
Master chuckled darkly. "If she'd had a drop of magic blood in her, she would've fit   
right in with the Death Eaters."  
  
"She *wanted* magic?" Harry asked. "But she *hates* magic, *anything* magic."  
  
"Of course," Snape said with a small, superior grin like papier-mache: hollow. "We   
always hate what we cannot have."  
  
"Like you hated my father?" Harry asked softly.  
  
Snape's face went still as stone, a bleeding-away of expression. He nodded.  
  
"Like I hated your father."  
  
The fire crackled as a log shifted, making them both jump.  
  
"Do you hate him still?" Harry asked into the new silence.  
  
"No," Snape said, sounding weary and a bit surprised. "I understand him more,   
now." He passed a hand over his eyes. "Why are you here, Harry?"  
  
Harry blinked. He then decided not to bring up the use of his name.  
  
"I was given some information about my mother," Harry began slowly.  
  
"You didn't pay too much for it, I hope," Snape sneered. "Anything you wanted to   
know you could have simply asked Hagrid or--"  
  
"She's alive."  
  
Another log popped, loud as a sudden Disapparration.  
  
"And what exactly do you want me to do about it?" Snape asked coldly.  
  
"Help me," Harry said, pinning Snape with feverish eyes. "Help me find her, and   
ask her why she's been gone."  
  
It was said as though Harry were discussing the weather; in spite of the nervous  
gleam in his eyes, his voice was a near-monotone. A little too calm. Snape stared   
at him for a long, silent moment. He swallowed.  
  
"You want to--"  
  
"Help me," Harry interrupted. "No one else will."  
  
"I . . ." Snape said helplessly, still staring at those eyes. Voldemort had looked   
like this once, when he was known as Tom Riddle. Snape swallowed again. "I'll   
do what I can, Harry." Thinking sooth him, calm him. Humor him.  
  
Harry slumped back into the couch, the light going out of his eyes and the tension  
bleeding out of his limbs; he moaned, and for the first time Snape looked past the  
new clothes.  
  
"You've been hurt," Snape said slowly. Harry nodded.  
  
"Bloody well paid for my clothes, though," he muttered, letting his head drop back.  
  
"Not a thief . . ." Snape murmured to himself, letting the boy drift into sleep, and   
drawing a number of wrong conclusions as he tried to decide on whom to call:  
Dumbledore, or St. Mungo's.  
***  
  
A/N umm, no offense to the GAP. Really. :)   
  
Lots more Snape next time, and some Lilly. Yes, actually Lilly-presence, in person  
and everything. Beginning to think I'd forgotten her, hadn't you. :)  
  
Oh, and everything that isn't explained here will be explained later, unless I  
forget. So feel free to ask questions/criticize.  
  
Worksheets #10 and #11 are being held hostage for forty reviews. That's  
not so much to ask, is it? Yeah, that's right. I removed the dern story cause  
FF.net wouldn't let me access it, and I've lost all of my reviews. Well, I want  
em back! pant pant. Just, review every chapter, or something. Okay, we can  
negotiate for 30. No? You guys suck. :P Please review! :) 


	5. SA Chapter 5: To Keep Me Whole

Some people have commented on how I've written a nice Snape in  
this piece. First, I haven't really written Snape yet; he merely reacted  
to Harry's arrival. Second. . . Okay, I didn't have a second point. :P  
  
For Evil!Snape, read my fic "A Perfect Circle"(shameless self-promotion:)  
  
This chapter was written as PG13 anyway, so there is no alternate version.  
  
A/N Guilford is a town in Surrey, England. I've decided that Little Whining  
is a suburb around there someplace.  
********************************************  
Worksheet #10: This Temptress Rage  
********************************************  
He could've forgiven her if she'd been unhappy.  
  
And what did that say about him?  
  
In Epsom, third stop on the London-Guilford daily, dressed all in black --not because   
he liked the color but because that was the only color Severus Snape owned-- Harry was   
nearly invisible in the shadows of the Launderette. Or at least inconspicuous. She was   
doing laundry, as would be expected, the laundry of a healthy family, husband, at least   
two children of opposite gender. And laughing.  
  
It was the laughing that got to him.  
  
The man with her must mean something; he can make her laugh, a full belly-deep  
giggle that he'd never imagined possible. None of the clothes she tosses with such  
equanimity into the machine are dark; instead, she risks a riot of blues and greens  
and sunshine reds to the same chemical treatment.   
  
He stands in his darkling corner, drinking coffee he bought at the little sweet shop   
next door; she'd gone there between loads, and caught his eye. He hadn't even been  
ready to confront her, but there she was, unlooked for, smiling superficially and   
buying an iced mocha, to go.  
  
The warmth of the late summer air made his own cappuccino seem superfluous. Oh,   
but he was cold inside, and the sight of laugh-lines, a life-time of joy, made him even   
colder.  
  
She'd left him with the Dursleys for *this*?  
  
The man with her was a typical, stolid Englishman, though apparently he was also   
wickedly funny, and in quite good shape for a man in his late thirties. He wasn't a   
wizard, though.  
  
Harry could tell.  
  
He couldn't sense any other wand nearby but hers.   
  
He had nothing against Muggles, but she should've at least told the man.   
  
Harry's arrival was going to come as quite a shock.  
**********************************************************  
  
It had to be a dream.  
  
There was a sense of having been confined for a long time, of abstract cold and   
damp, but no physical sensation. Of having smashed something living against cold   
brick and running running running through empty residential streets.  
  
But none of it real.  
  
He was being chased, the omni directional feeling of terror another clue. He  
couldn't be feeling this.   
  
The world around him reeled, and he with it, shifting wildly like a changing  
camera angle. He fell, but with little feeling of pain; a voice roared out of the   
distant sky plans for rape and murder, driving him back into his lumbering flight.  
  
It couldn't be real. This things his mind insisted that man had done to him  
couldn't be real.  
  
The terror pressed down on him, huge, massive, intangible; no warning pain from  
his scar, no twinge of magic, no thought even of his wand. Just the giant, ghostly  
hands scrabbling at his torn, bloodied jeans.   
  
He already looked like he'd been to the wars.  
  
A hand touched his sex, and--  
  
************************************  
  
--though it was a dream, it *had* happened.  
  
Harry thrashed awake in a large, four poster bed, huddled beneath down comforters   
and soft cotton sheets. He was naked, and clean, and felt more at home than he'd felt   
in his entire life. In fact, he could almost be at Hogwarts, except that the bed curtains   
were black and green--Slytherin colors-- and he didn't usually sleep in the nude when   
at school.  
  
He levered himself onto one elbow, swallowing a yawn as he pawed aside the bed   
curtains to feel for his glasses.   
  
"I see you're finally awake, Mr. Potter," Snape growled from across the room.  
  
"Jesus," Harry yelled, diving back under the covers. His heart stumbled, and then  
began to gallop. His hand flew to his bare chest. "Don't *do* that!"  
  
"Speak?" Snape said icily, with a dripping sarcasm. "Greet you in the morning? Offer   
a touch of civility? Please, feel free to interrupt when I happen upon the source of   
your distress."  
  
"Don't scare me like that," Harry said dully, looking down at where his fist had   
twined inextricably into a twist of comforter. His heart battered at his rib cage like   
a dragonfly, fragile and glitter-bright. He kept his eyes down, turning a blank face   
to Snape's facetious words.  
  
Snape raised an eyebrow. Harry couldn't see it, but he could sense it from across   
the room.  
  
"Lost a bit of gumption with the night, have we?" Snape said silkily, apparently willing  
to ignore Harry's distress. "A fine breakfast should remedy that," the Potions Master   
continued, standing smoothly.  
  
I'm not hungry, Harry wanted to say, but his stomach chose that moment to growl.  
  
He sighed, and looked down at the covers.  
  
"I'll be down in a minute?" he said hesitantly, trying to get the older man to leave.  
  
And up went Snape's eyebrow.  
  
"It's not like I haven't seen it before, Potter," Snape said lightly; any younger and   
he would've been rolling his eyes.  
  
"Could you please just leave?" Harry said quietly, still not looking up. His stomach  
knotted around itself, growling again.  
  
He could feel Snape's eyes on him, wondering. Harry swallowed a tremor, trying  
not to guess what the Potions Master probably assumed.   
  
'It doesn't matter,' he insisted stubbornly under his breath, ducking the glare.  
  
"Fine," Snape said after a considering moment. "Follow the hall down to the kitchen.   
And *don't* touch anything."  
  
Harry stared at his clenched fists. Snape strode through the door at his usual ramming  
speed, robes billowing behind him. Why the Potions Master wore his teaching robes  
while in his own home, Harry did not ask himself. The door slammed shut behind   
Snape. Harry was left curled against the headboard, alone.   
  
He was shaking.  
  
'It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter , it doesn't matter,' he chanted to himself,   
squeezing his eyes shut as though to intensify that one thought or to chase away   
all others. 'It doesn't matter,' he insisted, not feeling the single tear that slipped   
from beneath one crinkled lid.  
  
He pushed everything back down, and clambered unsteadily to his feet; Snape was  
probably right, in as far as the food went. He wasn't precisely hungry, he decided as   
he wandered over to the lead-paned windows, but he should eat. He looked out; the   
Strait was just visible beyond the low-lying scarplands. His stomach curled again,   
and made a little moaning sound.   
  
Correction, he should *definitely* eat.  
  
Snape's mansion was apparently void of house elves, which seemed odd until Harry  
considered the repercussions should a servant let something slip to one of Voldemort's  
followers. The results could be deadly for Snape. Harry shuddered at the thought of  
causing yet another death. He dressed himself quickly, swathing his thin body in layer  
after layer of undershirt and button-down and jumper until he felt secure again.  
  
His things had been put away in a large wardrobe, black walnut, like something out  
of C.S. Lewis. Snape must have undressed him and put him to bed after he'd . . .  
fallen asleep the night before, and then unpacked his bag.   
  
Harry froze in the process of tugging on his left sock, stumbling in his thoughts. Where   
was the bag? What had Snape seen?  
  
Oh Merlin, what if he'd taken it?!  
  
He fell to his knees and began rooting through the bottom of the wardrobe without  
further thought; his fingers brushed furs, musty woolens, the sharp edge of a shoe's   
heel, but nothing of nylon. A spider skittered away from his touch, but he ignored it,   
his breaths coming in great gasps as he began to panic.  
  
"Where is it, where the fuck is it," he muttered under his breath, not really aware   
that he was speaking aloud. His own clothes quickly joined the growing pile on the  
flagstoned floor as his fruitless search continued.   
  
Finally he sat back on his heels, gnawing at his lip worriedly. His chin fell nearly  
to his chest, and his black hair flopped into his eyes.  
  
"Now what am I supposed to do?" he wondered aloud. "What the hell am I going  
to do?"  
********  
  
Severus Snape was in the midst of buttering his toast when the Potter boy drifted  
down the back stairs; the stairs dead-ended into the kitchen behind the pantry, and  
Harry turned the corner in a slow slumberous state. Snape let his toast fall to his  
plate.  
  
"It's good that I am a very patient man," Snape began, attention more on his cooling  
coffee than on the boy before him. At least the house elves were still obeying the  
order to absent themselves; with Potter in this state, all chaos could break loose at the  
slightest provocation. "Your eggs are growing cold."  
  
Potter stared at him sullenly, the same mad, glittering look in his jade-green eyes   
that had initially aroused Snape's suspicions the night before.   
  
Snape swallowed, hiding it in his coffee.  
  
"Where is it?"  
  
"The lavatory?" Snape asked, deliberately obtuse. "Just down that hall behind you."  
  
Harry ignored his words, taking an unsteady step forward.  
  
"I *told* you about it, you didn't have to take it," he continued, a fine trembling now  
visible in his hands and around his lips. His tongue darted out, a kitten-pink scrap of  
velvet.   
  
Snape returned to knife and toast, clattering things about, restless.   
  
"I suggest you sit down and eat something, Potter," Snape said icily. "You're quite  
malnourished, and possibly hallucinating. Sit. Eat."  
  
"Please," Harry said, his voice ragged as he stepped forward. His hand caught the  
back of the chair across from Snape. "Just tell me where it is. I *need* it."  
  
Snape squeezed his eyes shut, hands very still over his plate. He breathed in. Then  
out.  
  
"Mister Potter, I'm sure you've had quite the trial of it. Your physical condition would  
certainly seem to suggest hardship, and your mental state has likewise deteriorated.  
However," Snape continued, meeting Harry's desperate eyes with every ounce of hate  
garnered from a lifetime of serving hatred. "I am forced to demand that you offer me  
the same respect in my home as that to which I have become accustomed at Hogwarts.  
Whatever you've lost," Snape went on, overriding Harry's protest. "I am sure that  
it will be found easily enough."  
  
"But, sir--"  
  
"After breakfast, Mister Potter," Snape said, returning to his calm.  
  
Harry glared at him, panting lightly, hand clenching the chair's back in a grip bleached  
white with strain.  
  
"Sir . . ." he whispered, wavering on his feet.  
  
"Sit down, Potter," Snape said, with a glare that implied his dislike of repeating   
himself.  
  
Harry lowered his aching body into the chair, slowly, huddling around his several  
layers of off-the-hanger new GAP clothing. It could not stop the shudders. They  
rose in him like waves heralding a storm.  
  
Snape glared at him after a few moments.  
  
"Eat, Potter," he commanded sardonically. "You're wasting away to nothing as I  
watch. Try some egg."  
  
Harry glared up at the Potions Master through his bangs, and picked up a fork.  
  
What am I going to do?  
  
"Well?" Snape was glaring at him. Big surprise, that. "Eat."  
  
Harry looked down at the cold eggs, over easy, the runny yolks congealing in puddles  
on the fat-striped bacon. The grease was visible, and Snape was apparently wiping  
up his with toast. Perhaps the greasy hair could be directly linked to diet . . .  
  
A generous portion of blood pudding was intruding upon the eggs; the pudding had  
actually retained its warmth, and wafted the scent of charred blood through the  
overwhelming acidity of coffee-smell.  
  
Bile rose in his throat. He'd never gotten used to eating breakfast at Hogwarts: too  
many years of going without left him queasy of a morning. His fork clattered against  
porcelain dinnerware. His chair screeched in protest as he pushed back, hand going   
to his mouth.  
  
"Potter?" Snape called after him as he ran; where was that lavatory? He staggered  
around the corner, feeling the rise of acid scouring up his esophagus. He hadn't  
thrown up in years, damn the luck.  
  
He hit the bathroom door with his shoulder, stumbling through into a parlor-like  
room antecedent to the actual bath. He reeled, turned, and lost everything in a large,   
decorative urn. It had probably been in Snape's family for centuries. He clung to its rim,   
unable to move, convinced that he would vomit again if he so much as lifted his head.  
  
Snape found him there. Harry's eyes were squeezed shut against the vertigo, but he  
heard the door open and shut around the ominous swish of Snape's robes. The  
Potions Master tsked.  
  
"In my great-great-grand-uncle Dorian's urn?" he said dolefully. Harry shrugged,  
as much as he was able. "Care to try for the toilet, next time?"  
  
Harry didn't answer, though he began a slow slide to his knees as they gave way.  
His stomach was quieting, away from the smells of food; he'd only thrown up  
bile this first round, and wasn't anxious to reach blood.   
  
Snape audibly bit his tongue on another snide remark, and crouched onto his   
heels next to Harry's pitiable form. Reaching out one hand, he patted Harry on   
the shoulder, once, then pulled back into his own personal space.  
  
"Sorry, sir," Harry whispered, not raising his head from his folded arms.  
  
Snape's eyebrow went up.  
  
"For what?"  
  
"The urn."  
  
"Nonsense," Snape said gruffly. "It can be cleaned easily enough. Perhaps I'll teach   
you the spell, when you're feeling better."  
  
"Thank you," Harry whispered, rubbing his forehead against the back of one arm as   
though burrowing into a hiding place.  
  
Snape sighed.  
  
"What for this time?"  
  
"For not yelling," Harry said, still in a whisper. Snape didn't answer. He also didn't   
leave. Harry decided to worry about his back pack later. His bout of nausea had   
brought his exhaustion to the fore; head pillowed in arms, he fell near to sleeping.  
  
"It's alright, Harry," he heard Snape whisper. "It's going to be alright."  
  
And then he sank into darkness.  
************************************  
  
A/N I promised Lilly, didn't I. Well, she was kinda there! sigh. The Lilly chapter is  
next, I swear. This one was just running long, so I split it into sections and am   
foisting it off on my unsuspecting readership. hehe. 


	6. SA Chapter 6: Won't be Saved by Morning

Warning: Language and TMDP(Too Much Damned Plot)  
  
Spoilers: Books 2 and 3, and I suppose 1 for the cupboard thing.  
  
********************************************************  
Worksheet #11: I Don't Know How to Let You Go  
********************************************************  
If you'd never really met your mother, hadn't seen her since you were one year  
old, you might have accrued a few expectations over the years as to how the  
reunion would go. You might have imagined tears.  
  
Laughter.  
  
Hugs.  
  
You'd never been hugged before this, remember.  
  
So this is your situation: starved for human touch, brutalized by human experience,  
an empty hole in your gut where your mother's love should be, desperate to catch  
even a glimpse of her long longed for face.  
  
You expected the relief.  
  
The gratitude.  
  
The sheer giddiness of having found her.  
  
You might not have expected the anger.  
***  
He followed her home that afternoon to a small suburb of Epsom, an incongruous   
daylight stalker. The late light streamered her world in honey-thick, dust-danced bars.   
Their neighborhood was perfect in a way the Dursleys' block could never achieve:   
it breathed in the late-summer sun, alive with children and dogs and well-kept but   
well-used houses.  
  
Their house, brick with white and green trim, practically glowed beneath the sun.   
Of course, he could have just been sensing the various wards and charms and   
protections that layered it like luminous gauze. Even so, the Muggle aspects alone   
looked like a fucking Hallmark card.  
  
There were definitely kids. He'd trailed their late-model Volvo sedan, dark blue, to a   
yard cluttered with the various paraphernalia of young children, the toys and game   
pieces and bits of swim gear that he'd never had. Aside from the toys, the yard was   
immaculate, small but trimmed and landscaped. Either one of them had a green thumb   
or they hired out a lawn service.  
  
He ditched the stolen BMW -an older model, gray - a block or two down and walked  
back, keeping to the shadows, to stand across the street beneath a drooping-limbed  
cedar. As he skulked attentively, a small girl, blonde and healthy-thin--unlike his   
own starved frame-- ran out through the lawn. She was shrieking and laughing, and  
Lilly ran out after her, caught her up in her arms, and hauled her bodily back indoors.  
  
They were both red-faced with giggles.  
  
Harry shivered.  
  
An eternity spent alone, and he was still separated from them.   
  
She was happy.   
  
Voldemort hadn't touched her life in the fourteen years since their separation.  
  
She had a new life, a new husband, new children. Her hair had even been dyed  
a lighter shade of red. Nothing was the same. Nothing *could* be the same.  
  
He wrapped himself in a hug as the sun descended a scree, and a cold mist   
rose over the tiny square lawns. By this time, the moon had ripened overhead;  
it silvered the mist and cast his tree into numbing shadow.  
  
Their lights squared yellow and ochre over yard, gate, and street. A car trundled  
by a block or so away, only its rumble reaching him.   
  
Their world was quiet.  
  
He was about as alone as it's possible to be.  
  
Right then is when the anger began.  
  
  
**********************************************  
Worksheet #12: Now Everybody Knows  
**********************************************  
  
*HaRrY*  
  
He was standing in the middle of downtown London, near the river; before dawn, it  
was a barren moor of a cityscape, all wind-tossed newspapers and roiling fog. He  
was surrounded by concrete and steel and wood, and he appeared to be completely   
alone.  
  
*hARry*  
  
He turned into the stiff wind, letting it streamer his hair and throw back  
Dudley's oversized hand-me-downs like a cloak. The rising sun caught him  
in beamlights through the shifting mist.  
  
"HArRy!"   
  
The voice was somewhere ahead of him, growing louder. He stepped forward,   
tentatively, not entirely sure that Voldemort wouldn't suddenly pop up and  
try to eat his head, as so often happened in his nightmares.   
  
But this seemed to be real. Though he'd no memory of how he'd arrived, and last   
remembered a fuzzy conversation with Snape over a decorative porcelain urn, he  
could feel the sun's brief caresses on his cheek, the searing, bone-deep kiss of the   
north wind. He could hear the voice audibly, as a piercing sensation in either ear   
not unlike the squeal of feedback from a Muggle amplifier.  
  
"HaRRy, i AM ComInG fOr yoU!"   
  
Harry kept his forward pace steady, shivering in the overlarge, too-thin clothing.  
Something bad was coming. He could feel it, right on top of him.  
  
*HARRY!*  
  
***  
  
-- and awake!  
  
He bolted upright in unconscious imitation of his last awakening, heart thundering  
through his chest in a stumbling run. He was gasping near to hyperventilation; black  
spots swam before his eyes, perforating his admittedly inadequate vision. Afternoon  
sunlight lay thick on his cheek. He appeared to be alone.  
  
"Do you often suffer from such horrible dreams, Potter?"  
  
"Ahh!" Harry yelped, jumping back against the headboard and clutching his heart.  
  
Snape remained very still, a faint smirk on his lips. He'd been hidden in shadow,   
typically.  
  
"Are you trying to kill me?" Harry panted, slowly sliding back beneath the covers.  
At least he was fully clothed this time.  
  
"Hardly," Snape said dryly, in answer to his rhetorical question. "I've merely been   
keeping an eye on you, should you attempt a repeat of the vomiting incident."  
  
"Oh," Harry said, his voice suddenly very small. "What happened, exactly?"  
  
"You fainted, again," Snape said.  
  
His voice either aggrieved or worried.   
  
Harry was betting on aggrieved.   
  
"I had to carry you upstairs, again, and put you to bed, again," Snape grumbled.   
"Judging from your previous reactions, I determined that you disliked sleeping naked   
and therefore didn't bother with ensuring your comfort. How are you feeling? And  
before you ask, I found your precious letter. You'd dropped it in the main hall."   
  
And handed him the crumpled sheet of loose-leaf as though nothing untoward had   
happened.  
  
"Umm, I feel fine," Harry said, taking the paper and smoothing it carefully, reading it   
quickly to make sure that it was the same letter. "Thanks." He was feeling a bit   
stunned by Snape's usual snarky verbosity, actually, but felt it would be rude to say   
so.  
  
"You're thanking me again, Potter," Snape said darkly.  
  
"Well, yeah," Harry said, somewhat taken aback. "You keep helping me, so, you  
know . . ."  
  
"Not really, but let us move on," Snape interrupted, smoothing his face into his  
teaching-scowl. "We never finished our little question-answer session the night you  
arrived, and for the moment I have a few questions that need answering."  
  
"Okay . . ." Harry said hesitantly.  
  
"To start simply, how on earth did you get here from Little Whinging?" Snape asked,   
folding his arms in his robes as though preparing himself for a lengthy tale.  
  
"I took the rail down to Dover," Harry said, avoiding the London issue and giving  
his answer as prosaically as was possible just to irritate the man. It worked.  
  
"Yes, Muggle transport," Snape sneered. "What will you do?"   
  
Harry had read about this, or seen it on TV; this is how you soften up a suspect  
and get the truth: switch topics often. He just hoped that torture wasn't also one of   
Snape's tactics.  
  
"I need you to help me find her," he said simply, sticking to the truth as closely as  
possible. "Without anyone else finding out. Now, can I ask you something?" he  
continued, hoping to turn the tables on the Potions Master.  
  
Said Potions Master smiled condescendingly.   
  
"Go ahead, Potter."  
  
"Shouldn't you be at Hogwarts, teaching?" Harry asked, blurting out the first thing  
that came to mind. He was adamant on his point, but the letter was a distracting,  
rustling presence caged in his slender hands.  
  
"I asked Dumbledore for a leave of absence the day you arrived," Snape answered,   
sounding bored. Harry's question hadn't been *that* self-evident, had it? "I suspect   
he knows my reasons, of course, but he can be trusted."  
  
"I don't trust him," Harry said, very quietly, stroking the letter with careful fingertips.   
It crinkled and shifted like a live thing.  
  
"You should, Potter," Snape advised, resettling himself in the chair. "He may need   
you, but he'll take care of you for a number of other reasons as well."  
  
"Like he took care of you?" Harry asked bluntly, looking up to catch Snape's reaction.  
  
Somehow, the wash of bitterness that crossed the man's ebon eyes was unsurprising.  
  
"Hardly," Snape sneered, actually breaking eye contact first. "You're the golden boy.   
I was practically a leper."  
  
"But he *did* take care of you?"   
  
"Why does that sound sinister when you say it?" Snape asked, eyeing Harry closely.  
  
"I suppose because it feels sinister. He *used* me." With something very like pain  
hidden beneath the angry words.  
  
"Only as much as he uses everyone."  
  
"And you respect that?" Harry asked, flinging out his arms in an exasperated gesture;   
the letter fluttered unnoticed to the floor.  
  
"Absolutely," Snape replied.  
  
"Oh, of course. I forgot for a moment that you were Slytherin," Harry sneered, unconsciously  
imitating Snape.  
  
"Look, Potter," Snape spat. "Maybe in your little world naiveté is a good thing, but in   
mine it can get you killed."  
  
"The Sorting Hat wanted me in Slytherin," Harry said reflectively, seemingly apropo of  
nothing.  
  
"What?" Snape blurted, wondering what in Merlin's name *that* had to do with anything.  
  
"I had to plead with it," Harry continued, seemingly oblivious. "Anything but Slytherin,   
I said. Would they have let me have a pet snake?" he continued wistfully.  
  
"Missing your blasted owl, Potter?" Snape said quickly, defensively.  
  
"What, you aren't surprised?" Harry glanced up; he looked disappointed. "That I should've   
been Slytherin?"  
  
"A bit," Snape admitted after a moment. "But then, you were always a bit too sneaky for   
your own good. Not entirely Griffindor."  
  
"Gee, thanks," Harry grumbled, eyes going back to the comforter.  
  
"If you wanted something other than honesty, then you should have gone to the Weasleys,"  
Snape growled, growing tired of being on the defensive.  
  
"Again, thanks." He rolled his eyes "They're my friends."  
  
"Friends are people who lie for you, to you, and about you," Snape said, with the air of   
one imparting some great lesson. "Entirely untrustworthy," he concluded.  
  
"You don't have friends? Somehow I expected that."  
  
"Truth, Potter. I have colleagues. I trust them. I may not like them, but in your experience   
which has been better, the friend you liked but couldn't count on, or the acquaintance you   
loathed but trusted utterly?"  
  
"Talking about yourself now?" Harry asked, a bit facetiously.   
  
Snape raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Perhaps," he conceded. "Perhaps just asking you to open those eyes of yours."  
  
"Oh, believe me, Professor," Harry said bitterly. "They're open."  
  
"Hmm. Perhaps."  
  
"What, you want proof? You want to know what I've been through, what I've seen?"   
Harry cried, suddenly growing sick of Snape's sneering, sniping exterior.  
  
"Yes," Snape said smoothly. "That's what I want exactly."  
  
Harry stared at him for a few moments; all the words that had been boiling up in him just  
moments before had suddenly been swallowed down by Snape's challenge.   
  
He began to shiver, an odd feeling crawling up his spine to settle uncomfortably behind  
his jaw.   
  
Actually *tell* someone?  
  
When it became apparent that Harry wasn't going to answer, Snape sighed.  
  
"Alright then, moving on. Why here?" Snape asked. He sounded frustrated, but he looked   
his usual, sneering self.  
  
Harry's eyes snapped up, and he stared at Snape for a moment, wondering which of them   
had been hit over the head, exactly.  
  
"I told you last night . . ." Harry practically whined, really not wanting to get into his  
motivations again. Snape seemed to get nervous when Harry talked about his mother.  
  
Snape noted with satisfaction that the boy had stopped his incessant shivering.  
  
"That I'm the only one who could possibly help you, et cetera, so on, and so forth. But   
why *here*, Potter? How did you know that I would be home? How did you know where   
I live?"  
  
"Well, I . . ." Harry trailed off, actually thinking about his answer.  
  
"Please, Mr. Potter, no need to rush into your explanation."  
  
"I didn't know!" Harry burst out, not meeting Snape's eyes. "I didn't know that you  
would be here, I just hoped. And I looked up your address in the Directory at the Leaky  
Cauldron."  
  
"What were you doing in London?" Snape snapped, looking startled.  
  
"I told you, I got this letter about my mother," Harry said softly. "I had to go look for her."  
  
"You also told me that the letter listed her location as somewhere in Surrey," Snape  
said reasonably.  
  
"But I didn't know *where*, exactly." Harry looked up now, his green eyes very earnest.  
"Surrey's a big place, and she could've been anywhere. So I decided that I should try   
to get to my vault in Gringotts for enough money to hire an investigator, except I never  
figured out how to get in without being identified . . ." He trailed off miserably, looking  
down again. "And I couldn't use my wand because of the alerts set up on it."  
  
He kept his eyes firmly on his clenched fingers, not wanting to see Snape's reaction.  
  
Snape began to laugh.  
  
Harry looked up, confused.  
  
"You went all that way, went through unknown hells, came *here*, because you thought  
you'd be expelled for underage magic?!"  
  
"I thought it could be traced! I thought they'd find me!" Harry said defensively, eyes  
sparking. Snape curled a sneering grin at him.  
  
"Oh, Potter, to think the fate of the wizarding world rests in *your* hands."  
  
"What?"   
  
"First of all, the injunction involves the use of magic *in front of Muggles*. Secondly, the  
alarms are only set up in your home. There is no such alarm on your wand itself. The   
intrinsic magic of the wand would prevent such a spell. Why some fifth year hasn't figured   
that out already I'll never know." Snape muttered that last almost to himself, before pinning   
Harry with his black eyes. "What happened when you blew up your Aunt Marge?"  
  
"I left home."  
  
"And?"  
  
"Flagged down the Knight Bus . . ."  
  
"And did your homework at the Leaky Cauldron, correct?"  
  
" . . . yes."  
  
"And no Ministry officials burst through your door, now did they?" Snape sat back,  
apparently feeling that his argument had been made.  
  
"Dobby," Harry whispered.  
  
"What?" Now it was Snape's turn to be startled.  
  
"When Dobby levitated that pudding, in my second year. *I* got the letter of warning.  
But I hadn't done anything . . ." he trailed off as the full implications of Snape's words  
hit him. "And in the alley . . . No one showed up there, either. I thought it was because  
I hadn't used my wand, but I didn't use my wand to blow up Aunt Marge, or to levitate  
that pudding . . ."  
  
"What's this about an alley?" Snape said after a moment, brows arched inquisitively.  
  
"Nothing," Harry said absently, still thinking furiously. "So you're saying that all this time  
I could have been using my wand? I didn't have to starve every summer? I didn't have  
to nearly . . . I didn't have to go to London?" His breathing was a bit too quick for  
Snape's liking, and his eyes were becoming worryingly vague. "I could have just done  
a simple Locater spell and . . ."  
  
"Not quite," Snape interrupted, fighting down the urge to shake Harry's out of his   
daze. His voice was actually verging on conciliatory. Comforting. "Dumbledore no   
doubt set up an impressive level of defenses around Lilly's home, you wouldn't have   
been able to . . ."  
  
"Dumbledore?"   
  
Harry looked up. Time almost seemed to slow down.  
  
"He knew?" Harry asked in a whisper. "Dumbldore knew all this time?"  
  
And all Snape could think to himself was 'Oh shit'.  
  
Everything froze.  
  
They could hear a clock ticking in the main hall.  
  
"Answer me, damnit!" Harry suddenly roared, climbing unsteadily to his knees.   
Snape stifled the urge to back away, sensing that it would only make the situation  
worse.  
  
"Tell me that Dumbledore knew," he pled, tears starting in his green eyes. "Tell me   
that he left me with the Dursleys for no *fucking* reason. Tell me that my entire fucking   
*life* has been a lie!"   
  
Still weakened, Harry fell back to the bed, tears running unchecked from his furious,   
apathetic eyes. "Tell me, Snape," he continued, voice weaker now. "Tell me that this   
hasn't meant anything. That it was just some elaborate mind-fuck set to ensure   
Voldemort's destruction. Tell me . . ."  
  
Snape sat frozen. Harry stared at him for a moment with betrayal gleaming in his  
bright green eyes -- Lilly's eyes -- before burying his head in his arms where they  
had wrapped protectively around his knees.  
  
And Snape felt something open inside of his heart, at the sight of the boy's desperate  
grief. He'd been betrayed like that once. He'd realized, just as accidentally, just as  
stupidly, that Dumbledore was neither all good nor all knowing.  
  
Feeling utterly useless, Snape gently placed one awkward hand on the boy's . . . on  
Harry's shoulder, simply resting it there through the long darkening evening.  
***  
  
A/N All that and all I got was a lousy conversation? Well, sorry, but there seemed  
to be questions that needed answering before I could go forward in the later  
timeline. And hey, I got it out pretty fast. :p Anyway, please review, and I'll  
write more! Promise. 


	7. SA Chapter 7: With Blood by Guilty Angel...

With Blood by Guilty Angels Shed  
  
****************************************  
  
Worksheet #13: Resolving the Issue  
  
****************************************  
  
He could do this.  
  
She was right there.  
  
He could do this. He'd just walk up to their front door -- bright red lacquer with a cut glass   
  
window -- and ask for Lilly.   
  
Her name would still be Lilly.  
  
She'd be home, and alone, and willing to speak to him with no explanation.  
  
She wouldn't worry that he was a wizard.  
  
She'd know him on sight.  
  
She wouldn't worry that he might be with Voldemort.  
  
Or . . . Oh. Right.  
  
Okay, maybe he needed a plan.  
  
***  
  
Worksheet #14: Final Stages of Disorder  
  
***  
  
He woke up.  
  
It was anticlimactically peaceful.  
  
Snape was a constant hovering presence beside his curtained bed.  
  
"We have got to stop meeting like this," Snape said dryly as Harry yawned and sat up.   
  
"Careful," Harry smirked. "I might start to feel unloved."  
  
Snape froze for a moment, and Harry ran a hand through his untamable hair, mussing it   
  
further.  
  
"Feeling better this morning, are we?" Snape finally asked. Harry ducked his head in   
  
response, and shrugged.  
  
"Can't live on angst all the time," he murmured. Snape raised one coal-black brow.  
  
"Odd, that's not what I recall from adolescence."  
  
Harry's stomach growled.  
  
"Ah," Snape said with an air of omniscience. "Now *that* I remember."  
  
"What time is it?" Harry asked, pointedly ignoring his body's needs. "Have you been sitting   
  
there all day?"  
  
"Not at all," Snape returned smoothly. "I'd just returned to check on you not five minutes ago.   
  
It's been dark for hours. Would you like something to eat?"  
  
Harry stared up at his professor, feeling dried tears stretching the delicate skin beneath his eyes.   
  
The world tasted of ashes.  
  
"Yes," he whispered, clearing his throat. He'd need food, for when he left. Couldn't have a repeat  
  
of London . . .  
  
"Excellent," Snape said, levering himself to his feet in a rush of black robes, as though his legs had  
  
gone numb. "I'll just alert the house elves, shall I?"  
  
"When . . ." Harry started, pausing to clear his throat. He refused to meet Snape's eyes. "When  
  
should I come down? When will they be gone?"  
  
"Excellently reasoned, Potter," Snape said with something like approval. Harry looked up,   
  
surprised. "Don't come down," he continued. "I'll return for you. In the meanwhile, I suggest  
  
you bathe and change."  
  
"Right," Harry whispered to the retreating back. His shirt did feel uncomfortably cold with old  
  
sweat, and was definitely tear-stained. How humiliating. And then--  
  
*Rush of a moon-dark wind.* *A girl's scream, muted by time or water, all blended together   
  
in the night.*  
  
--images flashed behind his eyes, and pain throbbed through his scar, bright and hot. His hand  
  
flew to his forehead, a gasp escaping between clenching teeth. It *hurt*, and he could hear her  
  
screaming, and there was nothing else, nothing but the dark, heavy and mired like mud at the   
  
bottom of a lake, pitch-dark, cloying, heavier than air, heavier than silt, heavier than death . . .   
  
He came out of it on a heaving breath, oxygen sucked into starving tissue like returning from the  
  
dead. His eyes stared blindly at the underside of the canopy. Snape had not returned. He could   
  
have died.  
  
That's when he began to shake.  
  
The connection to Voldemort was growing stronger.   
  
Or Voldemort was getting closer.   
  
He wrapped his arms around his middle and didn't think about it, very carefully didn't think about   
  
the rise of the Dark Lord or the death of that girl, she'd died in the dark, suffocated or drowned and   
  
Voldemort was there laughing over it all . . . Not thinking about any of it. He glared blankly at the   
  
comforter for a moment. Then laughed weakly. Not thinking at all.  
  
An unknown amount of time passed. His scar throbbed dully, steadily, slowly decreasing until it   
  
barely hurt at all. Then Snape returned.  
  
"You'll have to leave, now," Snape said urgently, beginning to speak before he'd even closed the   
  
door. "She's been asking about you, she'll figure out that there's nowhere else for you to be . . ."  
  
"Who?" Harry asked, lifting his head from his knees and following Snape's frantic progress with   
  
apathetic eyes. "Who's looking for me, what are you talking about?"  
  
"The new DADA professor, that Umbridge woman," Snape growled, his black eyes, if possible,   
  
becoming even blacker. "She's a damn Ministry spy, we should've moved you to headquarters,   
  
why couldn't you have trusted Dumbledore, Potter?" Snape almost wailed, now throwing seemingly   
  
random items into Harry's bag as he spoke. "She'll find you, she'll--"  
  
"What?" Harry demanded, scooting to the edge of the bed to peer at Snape. "What does she want,   
  
who is this person?" It was all dreadfully confused, he hadn't even gotten his Hogwarts letter before   
  
running away, and his scar was hurting and "What do you mean, we have a new DADA professor?"  
  
Snape stopped his frantic packing, set the bag down carefully, and turned to fix Harry with a steady   
  
glare. "As I said before, Potter, the Ministry sent a witch named Umbridge to keep an eye on the   
  
school, on Dumbledore, and especially on you. Don't you know what they've been saying about   
  
you, boy?"  
  
"What, the papers?" Harry shrugged, looking away from Snape's exasperated expression. "Sure,   
  
but I stopped more than skimming them after awhile."  
  
"Idiot boy," Snape growled, flinging the pair of jeans in his hands to the ground. "You didn't return   
  
to school, and they're blaming you for all manner of things! There was a Dementor sighted in your   
  
neighborhood, your cousin was admitted to St Mungo's for memory alteration. Ten Death Eaters   
  
escaped from Azkaban, and *Hagrid*" he spat the name, "still hasn't returned from his mission. The  
  
Daily Prophet has been blaming this all on you, Harry. When you didn't return, speculation began   
  
anew that you . . ."  
  
Snape paused, his hands white and clenching at one another like great spiders, his eyes furious.   
  
"They think you're the next Dark Lord, Potter. How could you not know any of this?"  
  
"I . . ." Harry stared at him for a long moment. His head felt light, like he might faint again. "I stopped   
  
reading the paper," he repeated blankly.  
  
Snape threw his hands up in a gesture of ultimate frustration. "Well, of course, what healthy teenager   
  
would want to read the news, of all things . . ."  
  
"I watched the Muggle news," Harry protested quietly, but Snape didn't hear him; already the older man   
  
had returned to packing, and was muttering something about coming under suspicion for his frequent   
  
absences. And Harry had to suppose that Snape, just this once, might actually be right.  
  
***  
  
Worksheet #15: Confronting Your Issues  
  
***  
  
All his attempts at planning this out, and in the end he was forced anyway, Aurors on his heels, magics   
  
darting down Muggle streets as he limped to her door, wet with the rain. Her Muggle was out for the   
  
evening, the children in bed, and he scratched desperately at her door during a crash of thunder, shaking   
  
too badly to use the knocker.   
  
She heard him in spite of the storm, and even that was like all his imaginings of fate, magical thinking, and   
  
she opened the door to stare blankly at the young man dripping on her front step.  
  
"Can I help you," she asked, all the humor in her voice leeched out by the escaping heat and the wand   
  
thrust, all too visibly, through his belt.  
  
"Please," he chattered, stiff fingers curling into the sleeves of his jumper in a blatant gesture of self-protection.   
  
"Please, I'm Harry Potter." Shaking the fringe out of his eyes as proof, meeting her eyes with an identical jade   
  
stare. "Your son." As though it needed saying. "I need your help."  
  
Everything was still for a moment. The rain pattered down softly, and water trickled down his neck from the   
  
soaked hair that was finally laying flat.  
  
"I'm sorry," she whispered. The light from her hallway surrounded her in a honeyed glow, and because of   
  
years of malnutrition he had to look up slightly to meet her eyes. "I can't help you anymore." And she shook   
  
her head, tears brightening her eyes. "You can't ask me to go against Dumbledore, not after all he's done for   
  
me."  
  
'She's been keeping up with the wizarding papers,' he realized, and then 'oh', burst through him with the   
  
sudden leadening of his heart. She knew. She'd known all along. 'She was supposed to have died for me,'  
  
a smaller voice whispered. 'She was supposed to love me more than anything.'  
  
Her face was sad, unutterably sad, Madonna with Child sad, the ineffable sadness of great distance and   
  
greater time, like regret before his flickering gaze following her each movement in the warm yellow glow.   
  
'They always said she died for me,' and everything sinking in him firmed to ice. She began to close the   
  
door, murmuring her regret, and he slammed the open of his palm against the red lacquered wood. He   
  
smiled, and it was terrible to see.  
  
"Wrong answer." His voice felt very far away, which perhaps accounted for the eerily cheerful tone that   
  
froze her limbs and widened her jade eyes.  
  
"What do you mean?" she demanded, her voice breaking on a hoarse whisper and Harry began to think   
  
that she might be afraid of waking the children she'd decided to keep.  
  
"You were supposed to say that you love me," he instructed gently, moving closer with a disconnected   
  
wooden grace. "And that you would do anything for me."  
  
"But I . . ." she stammered, stepping back away from him into her hallway, hand darting for a wand she'd   
  
long-since stopped carrying. "Things have changed, Harry." Her glance strayed toward the stairs. To her   
  
children. "I've changed."  
  
"You certainly weren't as expected, mother," Harry agreed blithely; power began to crackle up within him,   
  
dampening the golden light as though he carried the storm with him, crawling in slow swamp lightning   
  
through his smiling eyes. "I think we should remedy everyone's misconceptions, yes?"  
  
And he laughed, careless as a child in summer he laughed.  
  
***  
  
Worksheet #16: Aftermath of Illness  
  
***  
  
An arm, held immobile near the heart or curled beneath a splintered rib, begins to atrophy within two   
  
days. It was something to keep in mind, and if horrified visions of wasted, useless limbs flickered behind   
  
his eyes it was at least a distraction from this barren world.  
  
He couldn't breathe.  
  
It had seemed like a good idea, such a good idea, and his knife had been too sharp, maybe. He'd a feeling   
  
Snape wouldn't forgive this one. None of them would.  
  
Better to run.  
  
A wind whistled down and rattled the dying branches with early winter-kissed fingers, showering gold and   
  
russet leaves to the forest floor. It wasn't much of a forest, a park, really, with woods and a small lake and   
  
an old, overgrown cemetery; he appreciated the irony, but more importantly it was isolated enough for the   
  
season and his purpose. Not that any of that mattered, now.  
  
She'd screamed so.  
  
The sunlight was warm, at least, thick yellow banners that gilded his white skin; his blood glimmered wetly,   
  
almost black in the clean light. He coughed once, raggedly, the motion shedding crimson gore and a nearly   
  
purple gobbet of lung tissue. "Oh god," he groaned, falling to his knees. One hand planted in the thick loam,   
  
the other stayed clamped to his side. The blood flow was thicker now, darker, a more vivid color of his life.   
  
He was splashed with it, bright down the front of his jeans, dried brown and gummy in places. Not all of it   
  
was his own, certainly not the black gumming his teeth.  
  
He was smiling.  
  
Grinning really, an overjoyed grimace that didn't falter as he collapsed slowly onto his side. It had been good.   
  
Exactly as it should have been. It had been good.  
  
And nothing more.  
  
***  
  
A figure approached in the dark, tall, cloaked, hooded. Alright, *something* more, it seemed. He panted against   
  
the tree, the Boy Who Couldn't Just Fucking Die, eyes very green in the moonlight. Harvest moon, full, increasingly   
  
the color of old bone or antique lace as the dying night faded into dawn. "Harry Potter," in a hiss, too familiar, and   
  
he suddenly knew what he faced.  
  
"Voldemort," he returned calmly enough, voice a gurgle in a bloodied throat. "What do you want?"  
  
The hooded figure laughed, honest amusement, the moon striking off something dark and wet beneath the hood.   
  
"I want to make a deal," Voldemort purled, raising one hand slowly in the universal gesture of parlay. A grin   
  
twitched the corner of a dying mouth.  
  
"A deal?" Harry asked, resettling himself against the tree amid the wet, sucking sounds of his splintered ribs   
  
pulling against the flesh. "What kind of deal?"  
  
Again the figure laughed. "You interest me, Harry Potter. You have always interested me."  
  
"Then perhaps we should talk," Harry gasped. Black swam before his eyes. He was fading.   
  
"By all means," Voldemort said. Clouds scudded over the moon, covering them in darkness.   
  
After a moment the insects of the small wood began their night chorus once again. The clouds broke apart and   
  
drifted away, shining moonlight silver to the patched and puddled blood drying against the tree.  
  
***  
  
A/N This is ostensibly the end. Thanks to Scribblemoose for her work as cultural beta and first-reader. 


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